


Godchild

by Odamaki



Series: The Sherlexicon [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby, Everyone wants to cuddle the baby, Fluff, Gen, Mycroft is a big old softy, Post S3, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John unwisely brings his baby to a crime scene, has a minor conniption when she gets misplaced, and then has a good think about with whom she might be in safe hands. Oh, and Sherlock snarks at his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Godchild

**Author's Note:**

> (I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fanfic in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.)

**79: Godchild**

 

It was supposed to just be a brief cup of coffee, a bit of a chit-chat and a chance for Mary to get a bit of shut-eye; it wasn’t supposed to be a crime scene. Of course, anything where Sherlock is concerned never goes how it’s supposed to. John wipes his hands on his shirt as he leaves the building, feeling guiltily pleased. It hadn’t been dangerous- just a dead body needing to be looked at, and the method deduced.  Sherlock is thrilled to have him there, and John rides the pleasant buzz of the whole situation until the guilt of the fact he bought his 14-week-old daughter along with him starts to dig in.

 

Surely she was fine though. He’d left her with Donovan, who whilst occasionally catty and objected to the baby being there, isn’t irresponsible. It was only fifteen minutes. Still, John can’t help but hurry back to where he left them. He ducks around the police tape and spots Sally easily enough, barking orders.

 

Her arms are empty of anything bigger than her walkie-talkie.

 

John’s heart leaps into his mouth, and his alarm must show outwardly because it makes Sherlock double-take.

 

Sally holds up a hand as he barrels towards her. “Relax, she’s fine. She started fussing and I couldn’t figure out what was what, so I passed her to Anderson.”

 

“Anderson!?” Both John and Sherlock explode in shock.

 

“He said he knew what to do,” Sally protested.

 

“As if we ever listen to anything he –says-“ Sherlock blasts back, scornfully.

 

“Well, where is he?” John asks, not interested in getting into Sherlock vs Anderson round 300-and-something.

 

“He’s around…er, OI! Lane! Where’s Anderson got to?” Sally bellows across John to a sergeant in high-vis.

 

The man looks up and shrugs. “He left. About… 5 minutes ago?”

 

Now it’s Sally’s turn to look alarmed and she pales. “He what?”

 

“Oh Jesus,” John says, feeling weak in the knees. “Oh Jesus. I’ve lost the baby. Mary’s going to kill everyone.”

 

“He wouldn’t have taken the baby,” Sally protests, not sure she fully believes it, because Anderson does have moment’s of chronic misjudgement. She yanks out her phone and starts typing furiously. “He can’t be that stupid. Maybe he went to get her a bottle or something.”

 

“Well if he hasn’t _taken her with him. What’s he done with her?_ ” John demands, his voice rising in both volume and pitch.  Sherlock’s hand finds his shoulder and squeezes. “Relax. I know.” He raises a hand and points across the crime scene. Almost hidden by the flashing lights that make John squint, and the shadows beyond, is a black car.

 

John doesn’t even pause to contemplate what Mycroft is doing there, he merely rushes over. The older Holmes is leaning on the open door of the car, conversing quietly with someone. To John’s surprise, it’s Lestrade, perched on the edge of the seat.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be overseeing a crime scene?” John says, noting with utmost relief that his daughter is tucked in the crook of Lestrade’s arm, sucking her fist, sound asleep.

 

“I was, and then Anderson popped up out of nowhere asking if there was anywhere to change a baby, and incidentally, how d’you do that, so I ended up taking over. Mycroft volunteered his backseat for a changing mat.”

 

Lestrade tickles the baby’s stomach and she sleepily kicks a leg. “Cute, when they’re asleep.” He heaves a sigh. “Alright, Princess, back to Dad.” He stands and holds her out for John to take, and he does so, gratefully.

 

“Thanks,” he says, indulging in a cuddle, and brushing her wispy hair back on her head.

 

“Oh don’t,” Sherlock says, his tone full of eye-rolling exasperation.

 

“What? What did I do?” John protests, looking up at him.

 

“Not you. Them. Getting all… soppy. Honestly, the pair of you,” Sherlock chides, whisking a punitive finger at Mycroft and Lestrade. Lestrade stands there sheepishly, folding his arms, which John realises belatedly, must suddenly feel quite empty. He knows that feeling. Mycroft in contrast, has pulled himself up in arch affront, but there’s an odd tinge of pink around his ears, which isn’t like him.

 

“You’ve got your own, and you’re just being embarrassing,” Sherlock adds to Lestrade and Mycroft respectively.

 

“Yeah, alright, steady on,” Lestrade says, frowning, and jamming his hands in his pockets. Which is a sulk if ever John saw one. “A bloke’s allowed a moment of nostalgia.”

 

“Well _he_ has no excuse.”

 

Mycroft harrumphs. John tries not to be amused.

 

“Mycroft likes children,” Sherlock informs him, wearily.

 

“So do you,” John points out, because it’s true. Sherlock has been completely ridiculous over the baby since the day she was born.

 

“No, I like _your_ children. Mycroft likes all the… little pink toesies and fluffy ducky blankies stuff.” Which, alright, Sherlock wasn’t so much into that as he was interested in sabotaging her nursery rhymes for obscure classical music, so John could perhaps see what Sherlock meant. Yet still. Mycroft. Really?

 

“Really?”

 

Mycroft sniffs imperiously and says ‘Ignore Sherlock, he’s being preposterous as usual’, but in many ways, he’s too much like Sherlock. John can see the faint flicker in his eyes of pride overriding sentiment. Of longing being crushed by a misplaced sense of obligation. He rocks his daughter, suddenly feeling like a king. He looks down at the baby’s sleeping face. She’s content. Warm. Safe. He’ll do his best to keep her like that as long as he can; he’ll have her for years until, inevitably as a teenager, she shuts him out. He probably even enjoy that in the end, given time.

 

He can afford to share her a bit.

 

“Want to hold her?” he asks, looking Mycroft dead in the eye. Sherlock pulls a face.

 

“Urgh, if you’re going to encourage him, I’m going to- corpse.” He waves a hand in disgust with them all and strides off as though he is completely monstrously immune to the charms of John’s daughter. He isn’t. John chuckles.

 

He turns back to Mycroft. Mycroft regards him with a soft, cautious expression John has never seen on him before. Lestrade watches them both, a faint smile of understanding and amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

Mycroft swallows. “May I?” he says finally.

 

“Don’t drop her,” John says, wickedly, holding the baby out. Mycroft flashes him a look of mixed alarm and offense, and then John eases her into his arms before he has a chance to get too nervy about it.

 

Now it’s John’s hands that feel uncomfortably empty.

 

It’s worth it to see Mycroft’s face. He leans back a little on the side of the car, apparently for stability, and neither John nor Lestrade can keep up with the wash of micro-expressions that cross his face. There’s an awful lot being processed there. John looks away a moment, tracking Sherlock in the muddle of police officers.

 

After a while Mycroft coughs, and John looks back. Mycroft meets his eye and with deepest solemnity reports, “She’s quite lovely.”

 

Lestrade can’t stop himself guffawing. John makes an attempt to smother a grin, and fails.

 

“Yeah. She’s something,” he agrees. He leans on the car beside Mycroft and sticks out a finger for the baby to grasp. Lestrade leans on the car door, mirroring Mycroft’s stance from earlier.

 

“You know,” John says, on a complete whim and without thinking, “She hasn’t got a godfather yet.” He nearly regrets it with the unexpectedly raw expression Mycroft turns on him in his surprise.

 

“John-I-“

 

“Relax,” John says hastily, holding up a hand. “I wasn’t- it’s,” he gropes for the right words. “An option. Possible, anyway. Mary and I are still discussing. I mean, we’re not actually religious so…legal guardian. Whatever.”

 

He looks at his daughter again, and, again, thinking aloud adds, “She could do a lot worse.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says hesitantly, modestly, as he hands her back, “From certain angles, perhaps that is true.” He smoothes his jacket down, and retrieves his umbrella from here he’d hung it on the door, outwardly calm but inwardly still thrown.

 

“Question is, can she do better?” Lestrade puts in, side-eyeing Mycroft.

 

“Crime-scene?” Mycroft reminds him.

 

Lestrade gives it a glance, “It’s fine. Anyway, no offence John, Harry’s not up for it- Mary’s got no family, who else is there? Mrs. Hudson would do it, but she’s getting on;  Sherlock’s, well. Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock’s her uncle,” John says firmly, closing the door on that discussion. “He’s already family.”

 

“I’ll put myself up for it,” Lestrade offers, “But, no denying it,” he glances at Mycroft and makes a little gesture with his hand. “Sort of makes more sense, logistically.”

 

Mycroft uses the end of his umbrella to push Lestrade away from the car. “Crime. Scene,” he says firmly. Lestrade holds up his hands in capitulation and leaves, giving John a look and pointing one last time at Mycroft.

 

John shifts, awkwardly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

 

“Quite alright,” Mycroft returns smoothly, thumbing at his mobile phone. He’s all demureness and callow professionalism all of a sudden. John doesn’t buy it for a minute. “Consider it forgotten.”

 

“No,” John says. “You don’t get to forget my daughter.”

 

Mycroft gratifyingly back-peddles, “I wasn’t implying-“

 

“Would you?” John says, eyeing Mycroft with new insight and wondering if his little blurt of an idea wasn’t so crazy after all.

 

Mycroft looks at him, and then his gaze drops to the baby again. Softens. ‘ _God’,_ John thinks, ‘ _if you weren’t a Holmes, you’d have had this for yourself already, wouldn’t you? Somehow.’_ The baby weighs on his arm, warm and blissfully heavy. John feels incredibly, undeservingly fortunate. Mycroft speaks quietly, so quietly that John almost misses it, in a tone like a signature to a contract.

 

“In a heartbeat.”


End file.
